


Who Can Love A Corpse?

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, M/M, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 06:06:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2337923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A what-if fic spin-off from some role-playing between me and my partner. Mukuro is found to have a brain tumour, and his partner, Hibari, has to deal with the effects of his deteriorating condition.</p><p>(Originally posted to DW journal on Feb 23, 2013)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Can Love A Corpse?

_June 1, 20xx_

They find the tumour during a random health check. A Family-wide affair that was long overdue, should have been conducted earlier, delayed by unavoidable circumstances etcetera, etcetera - you don't want to hear it or any of the numerous self-effacing excuses that Sawada feels the need to come up with. What is, is. You don't need explanations or comfort; not from the Family (which you aren't a part of anyway, you tartly remind them), and certainly not from him.

The news circulates through the ranks like a malignant tumour in and of itself, self-fuelled gossip that rouses the Mafia like a hive of dormant bees. You leave it behind and wait in the garden where the wind blows coolest, kinagashi arranged with careless art on the warm wooden slats of the veranda. He sits beside you as you know he will, and leans his familiar weight against your shoulder. There are his lips, cool and dry against your skin, and there is his voice, the softest murmur.

"Kill me."

You stiffen. A shake of the head; denial or refusal, you don't know which, but it's just as emphatic as if you had moved your entire head. He knows how to read the little gestures and this one clearly upsets him.

"Kill me," he repeats insistently, turning your head to face him so his eyes - curse how beautiful and emotional they are - can bore into yours. Weakness takes you and you almost change your mind, but again that short, this time sharper, shake of your head. Anger sparks in his eyes and he thrusts you away with a sneer.

"Fine," he spits. "Prolong my suffering then."

You can't tell him how painfully the accusation buries itself in your chest. All you can do is watch as he stalks away.

 

_June 3, 20xx_

A few weeks, they estimate. A month at most. Who can really say when the tumour is as far along as it is already? Yourself, you hate that you didn't notice the signs earlier. You, who is the closest to him, and the one who should have realised when the erratic behaviour began that it was more than moments of irrationality that (it occurs to you now) have been far more frequent than you have led yourself to believe.

He's currently watching a little girl play in the garden. Strangely calm and serene when only an hour ago he was all frozen anger and rage. You watch him watching her and think, how much longer do the two of you have? The symptoms have been there for months already. Had the tumour been detected earlier could something have been done to remove it? Maybe. Possibly.

There's no point dwelling on maybes now.

"Such a lovely girl. Is she yours?"

You stare at the back of his head. Pineapple-like fronds, dark blue tresses that feel like silk when it passes through your hands. When he lets his hair down, he looks every inch the woman that his feminine charm suggests. But only you have ever had the privilege of seeing that. Perhaps you should ask to see it one last time.

"...No," you quietly answer.

 

_June 4, 20xx_

Negotiations with the Messine Family fall out spectacularly.

This is not unusual. What is unusual is the manner and cause of the falling out. You listen dispassionately as the reason for the dissent unleashes a tirade of insults and slurs (mostly about how the Family are exemplary models of mafiosi: filthy, selfish liars and traitors, which is nothing new) while angrily striding back and forth through the dining room.

He has been officially pulled off duty, you have heard. Finally. You wonder why this didn't happen earlier when it was clear to everyone that the man wasn't in a fit state to continue his duties as Guardian. But Sawada has always believed in the best and worst of people, and perhaps he thought that it would be best to let him complete what he had started.

You snort quietly - not enough to interrupt his torrent of words, you think, but he stops as suddenly as if you have shouted.

"Yes, Kyouya?" he says, all sweetness and mockery. It isn't like him at all. "Am I boring you?"

A wiser man would have sensed the dangerous tone and tread carefully. You don't claim to be wise, but you aren't a fool either. Or a coward.

"You waste energy on words that serve no purpose," you tell him bluntly.

For a moment it looks as if he is going to swing his fist at you. You meet him stare for stare, alert but not tense, waiting for him to make his move. You don't know if you'll let the blow connect or if you'll retaliate, but you're prepared for whatever he throws at you. And you can see that, despite the frayed temper and the less than perfect memories, he recognises this. There is still something of the fighter in him.

For a long time you stare at each other, silently challenging, both as stubborn and immovable as boulders.

His mouth opens but no words are forthcoming. Anger flickers to panic then flickers to anger once more, and he storms away with a face like a thundercloud. Later you'll follow a series of quiet thumps to the hallway, where he stands beating his fist against the wall while his forehead grinds into the plaster, weeping quiet tears of despair over his deteriorating condition. You have never been one to offer comfort to others, not even him, so you leave him as quietly as you came and try not to think about the accusatory glare that seem to follow you. After all, how can you tell him of your selfish wish to spend whatever remaining days he has in silent appreciation for all that he's given you? To watch him sicken and worsen over the coming days, knowing that he'll forget your face, forget your name, forget _who he is_ , in contrast to the strength and pride that he's so well known for, is more than you can bear. But you will be with him until the end, and you will see him off when his time has come.

Maybe you're a sadist to want this. You used to be enemies, and dying from something as pitiful as brain rot would be a fitting end to any other despicable man. But no, even a most hated enemy deserves a more dignified send-off than what you're subjecting _him_ to. Maybe this is the only way for you to let him go after he's twisted your heart as thoroughly as he has and made it his own. Maybe you need to see him decay and feel the love you have for him fade.

Who can possibly love a corpse once it begins to rot?

 

_June 7, 20xx_

When you return home you find him in the library, leaning on one of the shelves with a book. He smiles as you walk in and you dare to hope that today is one of those better days, that he'll recall your face and greet you like his lover. You hold your breath as his lips part, calling yourself a fool, an idiot, for wishing that everything might be as it once was.

"Hello. Who are you?"

Disappointment crashes down like a heavy wave, a flicker briefly made visible in your passive face which you hope he doesn't see. Keeping your voice steady, you answer, and he nods and smiles again before returning to the world of his book. A world you suddenly wish you could be a part of.

You turn to go; why linger when you're not wanted? You're almost out the door when you hear two thumps - one loud, one soft. Spinning around you see him on the floor, his legs collapsed beneath him when he tried to take a step; his book is a little distance away, having fallen from his hand.

You're by his side in an instant helping him to his feet - he wavers and nearly falls again, forced to lean much of his weight on your arm. His eyes look lost and, oddly, afraid; his brow furrows with pain. Something that has been itching at your mind since a long time back suddenly becomes clear and it makes you furious. Illusions are his trade: you know this. But what you've failed to notice is that he's been using them to cover the physical symptoms of his illness, donning a mask of pristine health while his mental functions slowly degraded until they became obvious to everyone.

And now, only now do these illusions fail, when his mind finally loses the ability to grasp how they function, when he is too in _pain_ to concentrate on the deception.

He didn't have a few weeks as the doctors had estimated. He had _days_. Days that you've carelessly and unknowingly wasted.

You set him gently back down on to the floor. With the collapse of the illusion, you see now that his eyes are unfocused and wandering. The half-open book he has been reading confirms what you suspect, the pages blank except for tiny perforations meant to be read by fingers, not eyes. You kneel by his side and gently brush back his fringe, not caring if he shies away uncomfortably from your touch.

"I love you," you murmur, meaningless as it is to him at this point in time. But he seems to understand because he reaches up and grasps your hand tightly. He's not completely gone. Not yet.

One more day, you think desperately. He can last one more day. Yet as soon as you think this, you know he will not. There was a reason he approached you, a little over a week ago, and asked you to kill him. He had already sensed himself to be at the brink of death. He thought you could see through the lie, but a part of you wanted to believe that all was well. So the lie held, and he, loving you, could only pretend to stay strong even as he withered inside.

You have two tablets in your pocket, passed on to you in secret by Yamamoto. To ease the passing for him, the man had said, though you had sworn to yourself them that you would never use them. You take them out now, pop them into your mouth without hesitation, then swiftly lean down to give your lover one last kiss.

 

_June 9, 20xx_

The funeral is a small, private affair, attended only by those who knew him. It wouldn't have been attended by anyone at all except yourself if you had had your way, but the herbivores needed their chance to mourn.

You have been standing apart from the funeral goers, scorning company as you do. What you have to say is for no-one's ears but his, and you will say them when you feel it is appropriate. One by one the rest say their piece, however brief or long, and one by one they shuffle out. Someone approaches you at the end of the service - you don't know who - and you unconsciously draw the child at your side closer.

"Such a lovely girl. Is she yours?"

A memory imposes itself momentarily before your eyes, of a man with long, indigo hair and a ridiculous tuft at the back asking you the same question, in the same tone of voice, as he watches a girl play in a garden. You blink at them, slowly, considering, before you answer.

"...Yes." _Not ours any more._ Closing your eyes, you continue, "Her name is Reika."


End file.
